You’ve heard of Tough Mudder! You’ve heard of the Spartan Race! You’ve heard of Rugged Maniac! You’ve heard of the Warrior Dash! You’ve heard of the Mudman Race! You’ve heard of the Hero Rush … maybe? You’ve Heard of the Run Through Crap and Drink Beer!*

But have you really been challenged? It’s time to take your game to the next level with the Woodbury Extreme Suburbathon! Ten 8.2 miles of asphalt chaos that will take obstacle racing TO THE EXTREME! Think you can handle the obstacles that await …

The Race Starts at the Woodbury Days Fairgrounds in Ojibway Park! Your race to glory starts down a corridor of merchant stands! Endure a free back massage! Brave a free body fat measurement! Enter yourself into 15 drawings, and get ready – this is only the beginning!

Run Past a Man-Made Pond: Those water bodies are about as natural as Joan Rivers’ face, but get too close to these mecho-ponds and you’ll be sprinting for your life from the GOOSE MOB! The GOOSE MOB will waddle, they will fly, they will hiss, they will scream … for blood! Expect a block-long sprint that will make your lungs buuuuuurrrrrn!

Run Up Radio Drive Into Oncoming Traffic apparently.

Freshly-Laid Sod Crawl: Natural grass? In Woodbury? HAH! A grueling crawl awaits you in the Seasons Villas … or possibly Lake Inverness Estates, or some other upscale housing community. On your hands and knees and out of sight of the homeowners – you hope – you’ll make your way back to the street, hopefully without taking a piece of somebody’s yard with you!Park an SUV At The Woodbury Lakes Shopping Center: Get to this mall and get in your designated sport-utility vehicle. You might think this is a well-earned relief from the physical punishment … but your brain is about to get cooked! To survive this obstacle, you must locate your designated store AND find a parking spot within 500 feet of it. If you run over a frustrated shopper, you must spend five minutes shopping at Gap as a penalty! Complete this task and start heading back to Ojibway Park!

Run Past ANOTHER Man-Made Pond: And run for your life from ANOTHER GOOSE MOB!

Tire Swing: A geriatric pair of empty-nesters who years ago said screw it to calling landscapers yard upkeep has a thrilling tire swing out back! Take what’s left of your legs and Tarzan it over a patch of treacherous … dandelions? … to the other side of the yard before taking back to the roads!

Kowalski’s Parking Lot Shuffle: Hope you’ve got your dancing shoes on, Tutu. You’re about to jump, slide, juke, and roll through a parking lot full of angsty soccer moms shoving Eco-Boost crossovers through anything that isn’t made of brick! Keep your head on a swivel. Just because their car has a back-up camera, doesn’t mean they’re using it!

Gloriously Jump Over a Four-Inch Wall of Flame: Because THAT’s hard.

End Back at Woodbury Days and Celebrate in a Beer Garden that Looks Like an Animal Pen While You Drink a Can of Miller Lite Because That’s All They Have: Celebrate your victory with the music of G.B. Leighton … or whoever they’ve got headlining this year, knowing that tales of this epic challenge will be passed on through generations**, until the next obstacle course comes to the area.

*This one was made up, but seriously.**In this context “generations” refers to Twitter posts and Facebook statuses

I was already seven or eight in at this wedding. I hadn’t stopped drinking them since finding out this was an open bar. Between sips, I tried and failed to out-weird the weird guy (he wore his chair cover as a sash, how did you expect me to top that?!), made members of the bride’s family uncomfortable with aimless conversation, and generally made my wife regret bringing me.

It had been a very productive evening, but I’m the opposite of fuel-efficient. If I was to keep this up, I needed a fresh Fat Tire.

The bride and groom both played hockey in high school, and both are recreational athletes now. A sizable slice of their bridal party, and thick packs of their friends, also skated with sticks and such. I overheard them reminiscing about their All-Conference high school glory days and their ice time in D-1, but it was always about who they played with. They rarely had exploits of their own to share.

I really needed a Fat Tire.

The bar’s immediate vicinity was a mosh pit of suits and tight dresses. This environment was straight out of a soap opera; a 10-tier art sculpture of a cake that lit up, filet mignon for dinner, servers pacing the room with hors d’eurve trays, and a candy bar (not like a Snickers, like a taco bar except candy). It’s one of those settings I had spent much of my life believing I wasn’t good enough to be in.

To prove myself wrong, I brazenly abused an open bar and came oh-so-close to “guy in khaki shorts and a chair cover tied around his waist” level of crazy. I was about to inch closer to my coveted Fat Tire when I heard this very Abercrombie voice behind me.

“What’s up with your hair?”

To be any closer to my ear, this sap would have to be standing in my (quite formidable) right pinna. If I stand correctly, my satellite-sized ears can pick up AM radio stations; instead, this whimper was coming in too loud and too clear. He said it precisely the way you picture Sidney Crosby protesting a penalty.

This remark had to be for me: I was in my Look Like Peter Gallagher or Jack White If I Muck it Up hair phase, the one I abandoned for my new Look Like Ryan Gosling Except Less Attractive Everything Else hair phase. Nobody else, not even Sash Guy, had this risky of hair.

1. Pretend this square-faced meathead bro wasn’t talking to me and slink back into the bar line like a pussy cat.
2. Get all chesty with him, which would look super alpha until he called over faux-hawked, peach-fuzzy-faced army.
3. Man him up with a mind trick.“It’s my hockey hair,” I replied. “I keep it long for the season.” It flipped his expression upside-down.
“You play!?”

I was on a slippery slope here. I have a hard time telling you I ate four slices of pizza when I only ate three and keeping my story straight … but when I’m drunk, I can ad lib a tall tale the way Bob Ross used to paint trees. He didn’t seem to be in a discerning state, if you dig, but I began by putting myself someplace obscure. This was key.

“Well, I’m in the Blue Jackets’ farm system right now.” I smiled and laughed out my nose. “So, it’s not like I’m an actual pro.”

What, you’ve never heard of the Columbus Blue Jackets? Neither has anyone else. Acting like it wasn’t a big deal because the Blue Jackets always stink was key, because it stonewalled him from asking any specific questions. Also, notice how I reeled him in by name-dropping an NHL team without overplaying my hand and acting like he should know me from a highlight reel. The farm system note was key, as it set up this little dandy …

“I’ve only suited up for Columbus a couple of times.”

This bro’s face twisted like a lemon peel and I was cool as Korbel on ice, and I still hadn’t given him anything to call me on. Ambiguity is key: Permafrat here might’ve been on his seventh Coors Light or whatever, but believe he remembers every goal from every SportsCenter since the show’s creation.

Now, the mention of NHL minutes was a blunder because this was in November and the NHL (not on lockout that fall) had only played a few games. A clear-headed person might have had the presence to ask why I couldn’t go into more detail about games I had just played. Luckily, Coors Light was helping me out with this guy.

Guys.

People.

I looked up from my empty Tire to a small crowd of people around him. I was a novelty now, a true treasure, a name to drop, but there were all manner of minds here now. This many eyes and ears could make me, but the next step was key: I Let my new minion tell my story for me.

And he did, with unwavering zeal. People will question a random guy in the bar line, but no hockey people will question their hockey friends. Hell, I just let my little blonde thrall make up stories for me while my turn in the bar queue finally came. I stepped back into the circle, shook a few hands, and got the best ending I could ask for:

“I’m sorry I made a joke about your hair,” the guy said. “I … I actually really respect that.”

The last step was key. As Frank Sinatra said, “Subtlety, baby. Subtlety.”

“It happens,” I said as I got ready to step away. “It’s not like I came in here wearing my jersey.”